


Tried to Forget You

by trucizna



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky has the serum, Character Study, Co-Sleeping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Humor, Kissing, Light D/s undertones, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, War is hell, World War II, actually they're doing ok at feelings somehow, boys are stupid, but it just slipped in on accident, europe what europe, even though the canon timeline doesn't match with that, everyone is sad, extra sad post-torture bucky, feelings what feelings, forest what forest, it's always snowing in the angst woods, keeping secrets, let's get back to angst, overprotective and bad at it steve, references to previous torture, they talk like milennials because i am a milennial, they're stupid but they're also cute, time what time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trucizna/pseuds/trucizna
Summary: It's the same Bucky that Steve pulls from the slab in Kreischberg, but everything is different between them.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103





	Tried to Forget You

* * *

All clear.

The cocky, non-regulation salute fires off, Steve’s smirk so happy it almost makes it to where Bucky’s perched high in a tree. Immediately, a bold single shot sounds through the snowy forest and Bucky yelps, branches snapping as he falls, bodily tumbling from the tree.

“Bucky!” Steve screams, lurching toward the spot where he fell out of sight.

“Captain!” Morita shouts with equal urgency, opening fire on the approaching Germans as they emerge from the snowy mist. 

Like a machine, Steve turns back to his team, shield up, cutting his brain off painfully from everything except the enemies before him and the team immediately around him.

But his heart continues to beat a painful staccato of _bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky_

  
  


* * *

The last enemy soldier is down and Steve pulls his shield out of the corpse’s armored chest with a shriek of metal and squish of flesh. He distantly realizes he’s never seen armor like this on a Nazi before, and he realizes that’s important, and he realizes he doesn’t care. 

This is what delegating is for. 

He gestures for Morita to take a look and takes off into the trees. Behind him, Jones yells something but he’s too far gone even if he could make out the words over his rough breathing and the dampening effect of the snow.

_bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky_

He’s only been back from Kreischberg for a few weeks. He’s not gaining any weight. He’s too quiet. And now Steve got him shot out of a tree.

He doesn’t know exactly which tree Bucky had been in so he has to look around for (blood) freshly-broken branches and tracks in the snow. He finds Bucky’s soft footprints leading to a tree, and when he arrives at its trunk he realizes the tree is backed up against a steep hill that disappears into thick undergrowth. 

_No blood, there’s no blood._ Steve exhales.

_There’s no Bucky._

A quick search reveals there are no tracks going away from the tree, _no blood, there’s no blood,_ and it seems unlikely that an enemy would have carried him away without any other signs of a struggle.

Steve realizes then Bucky must have fallen into the ravine. He looks over the edge briefly, glances at the dense bushes, scrub oak, frozen mud and trees. 

He adjusts his grip on the shield and flings himself down too.

* * *

When Steve finds him Bucky is blinking up at the sky, covered in mud and snow and scratches—alive. He’s alive. His lips are blue and he’s not shivering but he's alive, _he’s alive._

As Steve is patting him down for broken bones or internal bleeding, Bucky seems to come slowly more to himself. When his eyes finally focus and he says “Steve?” Steve almost breaks down right then and there. A sob lodges in his throat.

Steve buckles his coat on top of Bucky’s and lifts him to his feet, and together they limp back to camp.

* * *

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bucky shouts, shoving at Steve’s chest hard enough to push him a step backwards. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Steve. Fuck you. _Fuck you_.”

“Bucky, I’m—“

“No. Just… no.” He sits down on a stool by the fire and drops his head in his hands, breathing hard. The rest of the group cleared out as soon as Bucky stalked up, eyes frigid and jaw clenched, leaving Steve to face this alone. He doesn’t blame them. “You should know better. You’re a _captain_ , for chrissakes.”

“Not really. It’s just for show.” Steve says, taking a step forward and stopping when Bucky raises his head to glare at him.

“Really? Is that what’s important here? You gave away your sniper’s position. This wasn’t like that time in the bombed-out wreck. You could have actually gotten me killed. And, if I’m hearing this correctly, when you suspected—only _suspected—_ I fell off a cliff, you jumped off too!”

“It wasn’t really a cliff, it was more like—“ he swallows as Bucky’s glare crystallizes into something even sharper. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

“Sorry!” Bucky throws up his hands and stands again, starting to pace. “He’s _sorry_. Fuck you, Rogers.”

“What do you _want_ from me?” Steve’s voice comes out harsher than he expects, than he wanted, and Bucky’s face falls. Disappointment seems to frost him over. Steve swallows. 

“Just…” Bucky brings his hands up to his hair as if to tug it, hisses with frustration, and stalks away into the snow.

Steve wants to shout after him, apologize again, beg. Something, _anything_. But he doesn’t.

* * *

There was a time when Steve never knew when to follow Bucky when he was angry, but years of practice and the gradual partial dissolution of his own anger have answered for him. Though he’d never say it, he always wants Bucky to follow him. He never wants to be alone in his anger, his fear. Why would he do that to his closest friend?

And maybe it’s selfish, maybe he just wants to be forgiven. Maybe he just wants to see him smile, to be reminded that Bucky is—miraculously, and despite Steve’s constant blunders—alive. 

He’s _alive_ and whole. The ravine (cliff, whatever) wasn’t inconsequential. Steve made it through with only scratches because he has the shield and the serum and a skull thick as a brick wall, but Bucky—

Bucky is lucky to be only scratched and bruised, too.

So he follows.

* * *

“I’m not talking to you.” Bucky sneers without turning around at Steve’s approach. 

“Come on, Buck. You almost froze to death a few hours ago. Why are you out here by yourself?”

“I’m mad at you. And I need a cigarette.” He’s not smoking, though.

“Um.”

“God, you’re such an asshole.”

Steve puts his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do something else with them. He wants Bucky to look at him. To forgive him. To smile again. “I know. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You _never_ think. You don’t have two brain cells to rub together.” He crosses his arms, buries himself further in his coat and still doesn’t look at Steve, “I’d say that machine sucked out all your brains but you were even worse before the Army got to you, honestly.” He stomps his feet and shivers. “Maybe you only had one brain cell before and you got a second one, jacked your brain up twice as big like your stupid body, but it’s still only two brain cells and you’re so _fucked_.”

Steve swallows and lets him finish, losing the metaphor somewhere in the middle. “Come on, Buck, it’s freezing. Go back to camp. If you don’t want me around I can stand out here and freeze instead.”

Finally, _finally_ , Bucky glares at him. “You probably don’t even feel it anyway. Jerk.”

He stomps past Steve toward the tents and the campfire, frowning into the collar of his jacket. Steve follows behind, relieved in ways he can’t quite place.

* * *

By dinner Bucky is sitting next to Steve on the log they’ve dragged over by the fire, the long lines of his body pressed against Steve’s everywhere it possibly can. Shoulder to hip to thigh to knee. Steve is finally relaxed—while Bucky is still sullen, he wouldn’t be this close if he were still actually angry no matter _how_ cold he was.

“I don’t know how you’re not cold, weirdo,” Bucky says, again, trying to huddle impossibly closer.

“You’re too skinny,” Steve grins, pinching Bucky in the ribs and eliciting an undignified yelp. “Maybe if you ate anything you’d be warmer.” 

“I eat,” Bucky grouses, glaring at Steve’s hands. 

It’s true, Steve’s seen him eat—he eats with the guys regularly enough, and in about the same quantities as the others even if he’s slower. But Steve still worries. He’s asked the other Howlies what it was like in captivity, and they all gave similar answers: smelly, boring, hungry, boring, humiliating, boring, smelly and extremely boring. Apparently they were rarely taken out of the cages on the factory floor, and when they were it was strange. They were measured with calipers and tape, blood was drawn, they were beaten a little, then they were returned to sit in each others’ stink for days and days on end. 

And none of them saw Bucky again after he was taken out in the first week. 

Whatever happened to Bucky didn’t happen to the others, and while Steve has tried to ask him about it Bucky shuts down every time.

* * *

When Steve wakes up Bucky is gone, and his heart drops completely out of his chest. He sits up, suddenly alert, pistol in hand, before his senses catch up to him. This has been happening lately, almost every night that Steve wakes up. He wonders if Bucky leaves the tent every night. He wonders how often he sleeps through Bucky’s pain.

He slips out of the sleeping bag and the thin extra blanket, stretching briefly and kicking on his boots without tying them before he exits the tent. The cold bite of night air grabs at him but he ignores it, getting his bearings in the moonlit forest to see where Bucky might have gone. He turns toward the darkest copse of trees and doesn’t try to hide his approach. 

He fumbles a bit in the dark as the trees block the light from the moon, but his enhanced eyes adjust quickly enough. He’s looking at eye level for the tell-tale glow of a cigarette but doesn’t see one. He’s so focused on looking for this marker that he almost trips over his best friend sitting on a stump, staring into the darkness with an unlit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. 

“Hey Bucky,” Steve says softly, taking in what details he can see of the man’s face. His eyes are unfocused and his face is slack, cheeks pink from the cold. “Your, uh, cigarette… it isn’t lit.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but doesn’t elaborate. Steve moves around to stand in front of him, putting his body between Bucky and whatever demons he’s looking for in the forest. 

“You wanna come back to bed? It’s cold out here. I…” Steve knows how stupid it sounds before he says it but continues anyway. “I don’t want you to get sick.” It’s the kind of shit Bucky would say to him when he was so small and fragile, and Steve _hated_ it.

Bucky looks up at him then, finally, and a tightness in Steve’s chest unravels a little. “They don’t do anything for me anymore,” he says softly.

“What?”

“Cigarettes.” He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and throws it, whole, into the trees where it disappears among the fallen leaves and pine needles. “They just taste like ash and tar now.” 

“Seems like a waste,” Steve finds himself saying, eyes still tracking the cigarette. “You could’ve traded it to Dernier for a blowjob, at the very least.”

Some of the death slips away from Bucky’s eyes, and Steve counts that as a win even if he’s not smiling or laughing. “If only Agent Carter could hear you when you’re out at night, alone with the boys,” Bucky drawls.

_Alone with you,_ Steve wants to say. He doesn’t.

“Even she would clutch her pearls.” Bucky continues. His eyes slide to Steve’s, “you kiss her with that nasty mouth?”

Steve scoffs, shakes his head. Smirks. “She wishes.” 

“Yeah, she does.” Bucky’s voice is soft, pensive, and completely lacking in the usual taunting tone the Howlies always give each other. He turns back to the forest.

“Come on,” Bucky’s shoulder is freezing under Steve’s hand and he wonders how long he’s been out here, cold and alone, nursing a pointless cigarette and his bleakest thoughts. “Let’s go back.” 

He holds Bucky’s hand the whole way to their tent, telling himself that it’s to guide him safely through the dark because Steve can see so much better now, _superhuman_ , and he doesn’t want Bucky to trip.

* * *

The first night Bucky was back from captivity, skinny and worn and dirty and haunted, he crawled into the cot with Steve around three in the morning. Surprised, Steve just held him. There was no room for both of them in the tiny bed and he didn’t care, just clung to Bucky when he finally went limp with relief in Steve’s arms. Steve thinks he whispered to him, something soothing to try to lull Bucky to sleep, but he doesn’t remember and he definitely doesn’t remember what he said. Every night since, without fail, Bucky has crawled into Steve’s bed, every night making the change earlier and earlier until he began to start there—sometimes even beating him to the cot and making Steve wiggle under him so they’d both fit in the way they’d found most comfortable.

Bucky seemed to sleep like the dead, so much so that Steve checked his breathing regularly the first few nights, terrified that he found the friend written off as KIA only to lose him in his sleep once he was safe. He was terrified that Bucky, alive and here, was only a dream—and he’d wake up alone or with a chorus girl instead. Once he’d gotten used to Bucky’s presence—though he vowed never to take him for granted ever again—Steve would run his hands through Bucky’s sleep-messy hair, burying his nose and fingers in until he smelled nothing but whatever goop Bucky was always putting in his hair mixed with the unique musk of his sweat. 

Now, Steve finally lets go of Bucky’s hand as they pile into bed together. But Bucky lays stiffly on top of Steve for long enough that Steve dares to venture a whispered attempt at a lighthearted “penny for your thoughts?”

Bucky scoffs, “I’m worth at least a dollar, Rogers.”

_More. You’re worth more. So much more,_ Steve wants to say. He doesn’t.

Instead he says “Okay, I owe you a dollar then.”

“As if you have a fucking dollar.” 

Steve recognizes it for the evasion it is and doesn’t push. He just pulls Bucky closer, holding him tightly, letting the darkness and the heavy blankets make this okay. He tries not to think too hard about what’s between them, what this is growing into, and just breathes Bucky in. He holds Bucky in his lungs like a cigarette but infinitely better, and not just because cigarettes stopped feeling good for Steve, too, once he became this giant, unfamiliar version of himself. He’ll hold Bucky forever now that he can.

Now that he’s strong enough.

* * *

Sometimes—when it’s late and Bucky is asleep but Steve isn’t, or when Bucky is on the other side of the campfire ribbing Dernier again, or when Bucky comes back from wherever he goes when Steve can’t (doesn’t) follow—Steve thinks about the flashes he gets behind his eyes of the men he’s killed, and the men he couldn’t save. He thinks about blood and anguish and his heart aches, like it’s too heavy to bear but he doesn’t have a choice so he bears it. Then he looks at Bucky and his weak smile and Steve feels guilty for waking up to memories of all those needles and the tightness of the metal tube and the greatest pain he’s ever felt in a life already full of pain. He sometimes gets annoyed that he’s not allowed to wallow in this, this misery, because he wasn’t tortured like Bucky was. He’s adult enough to realize no one is doing this to him but himself, and that pisses him off even more. Bucky won’t even _talk_ to him about what Hydra did to him in the months he was gone—when Steve didn’t even know he was missing, just assumed he was busy and the Army’s mail system was as shitty as usual, and Steve was simply relieved that he didn’t have to explain how he was functionally a beefy chorus girl with no singing or dancing ability while Bucky was probably miserable in a trench actually doing something worthwhile for his country.

Bucky was tortured—tortured enough that he can’t even tell his best friend what happened to him—and Steve is hung up on killing a few Nazis. He’s seen good men die, sure, but none of his friends, and he has no idea what Bucky has seen besides all of that and more. So Steve sets his jaw and holds Bucky at night and tries to ignore that weight in his chest, like he’s plugging up his arteries to keep the pain from spilling out onto the men who already have so much.

Steve feels like he’s angry so often and yet he always seems to have more room for this anger, this pettiness. It writhes in him.

Sometimes it’s too much and he doesn’t follow Bucky into the forest, and then on top of all that pain and bitterness he gets guilt, too, when Bucky slinks back with that haunted expression and won’t look Steve in the eye.

* * *

Bucky’s dropped back behind the others on the march and, concerned, Steve gives Morita point and slows to join him. There’s no expression on Bucky’s face and Steve wonders how he used to read him so easily—maybe he never did, or maybe this is something else Hydra took from them. 

“Hey buddy,” Steve says easily, but Bucky must detect the concern he’s tried to mask because he glares.

“Fuck off, Steve.” 

Steve fights off a smile—if he’s not ‘Rogers’ then Bucky isn’t _too_ mad at him. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, too quickly, and turns his glare to the muddy trail. “What’s on _your_ mind?”

“Well,” he glances up at the group ahead of them, calculating distance and whether they’ll be overheard. “You’re okay touching me. I was thinking about that.”

Bucky looks back at him, startled. “Uh… yeah? If you don’t like it I can—“

“No it’s not that,” Steve stops him quickly, then swallows, runs his tongue over his dry teeth. Buys himself a moment, “it’s just… when we first met, after I was—“ he gestures vaguely at himself and Bucky snorts. “On our march back you couldn’t stop staring, and you wouldn’t get close. You got close _enough_ but I could tell you didn’t like it. Me. The changes.”

Bucky looks away again and the muscles in his neck and jaw jump. Steve continues, “and even now you seem comfortable being close to me, more like we used to back at home, but now and then you have this _look_ , like… I dunno. Like you’re grossed out. Bucky, if you don’t—“

“Stevie you’re such a dumbass,” Bucky sighs, interrupting him. “It’s not that. You’re only as gross as you ever were. I _know_ how infrequently you wash your moppy hair. It’s more like…”

He kicks a pinecone and watches it skitter away. Steve feels like his lungs have stopped working, like they rise and fall with Bucky’s approval. His lips are a mess with how much he’s been chewing on them lately.

Bucky turns to look him in the eye, jaw flexing in confrontation. “I used to dream about you, in there.” He doesn’t have to specify where ‘there’ is. “I used to hallucinate—or whatever it was—that you were coming for me. Or sometimes, on the really bad days, I thought that they’d captured you too and it was _you_ I heard screaming down the hall. And when I thought I saw you, you were always your old feisty self. Bleeding face, five-foot-jack-shit, 100 pounds soaking wet. The works. So now when I look at you, it’s a relief. A reminder. I’m not in that place. I’m here, with you, and you’re real and gigantic and as dumb as ever, and when I wake up I’ll be here with you too.” He shrugs, letting his eyes slide back to the path in front of them. “You’re safe.”

“Bucky…” But Steve has no idea what to say.

“If you don’t take point again you’re gonna get stressed out, Stevie.”

“Yeah, okay.” He jogs to catch up with Morita, lungs sucking in a deep steady rhythm of soft winter air.

* * *

When they kiss for the first time it’s not the kind of beautiful explosion Steve expected. It feels more like a natural extension of the gentle kisses he’s been pressing into Bucky’s hair while he slept, or the way Bucky’s grip would tighten on Steve’s ribs and his thumb would circle there gently as he drifted off.

Steve’s not sure who started it but he thinks it was him, but then Bucky’s mouth is on his, pressing back, all hot and sour and perfect, and he doesn’t think it matters anymore. Bucky usually sleeps with his head digging into Steve’s shoulder, face pressed into his pec, but once they’re kissing Bucky rolls his body up, tense smooth strength, until he’s looming above Steve. The angle makes Steve gasp—there’s something about Bucky being taller than him again, something visceral, and a pleasant weight drops into his stomach. A grounding.

They break apart for air with simultaneous gasps. He feels Bucky’s heavy exhalation on his nose and closes his eyes. But before Bucky can press their mouths together again Steve is bolting upright, the “I’m sorry,” a guilty reflex. Startled, Bucky yelps and teeters off the edge of the narrow cot, but Steve just as reflexively grabs him and pulls him back into his chest.

“Oh my god,” Bucky sighs. “Rogers, fucking—“

“I’m sorry Bucky, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I—“

“— _finally_ , I’ve wanted to do that since nineteen thirty… what do you _mean_ you don’t know what’s—“

“—don’t want you to think…” he sucks in a surprised breath, “1930? Really?”

“—gotten into you? Oh good, you done? 1936, actually. Remember—“

“No no no, not Coney Island...”

“Yeah, buddy,” and though it’s dark Steve can hear Bucky’s grin. “The Cyclone.”

Steve groans and rolls his eyes with his whole body, “God _why_ ,”

“We all made fun of you relentlessly and you were so upset, like upset in ways I hadn’t seen from you before. So I had that stupid teenage epiphany where I realized I can have a drastic effect—sometimes an awful one—on the people who matter to me. Then it made me think hard about why and _exactly_ _how much_ you mattered to me. It sent me into an existential crisis, actually, so thank you for that.”

“Ugh.”

Bucky hums, and Steve wishes he could see his face. It’s impossibly dark; it’s so late, the moon is new tonight, and camp is on a blackout again. Maybe that’s why this is happening now instead of under the lights and crowds of Coney Island or when Steve is searching Bucky’s miserable, vacant face in the forest moonlight.

“Mine was before that,” Steve says finally.

“What? Your existential crisis? Please, as if you’ve ever been capable of the introspection to—“

“When I first wanted to kiss you.”

The following silence stretches a little too long. Steve feels tense enough to break. Then Bucky is hissing, “you’re such a shithead, Steve. Do you gotta one-up everyone all the time? I swear to god—“

Then Steve pulls him against his body again, gently this time, purposeful, and Bucky swings one leg over so he’s straddling Steve’s lap like it’s nothing, like they do this every day. This kiss is smoother, firmer, deeper, and it almost kills Steve to say during their next breaths, “Buck, do you think we should—”

“No,” Bucky pants into his mouth, reading his goddamn mind, “this is good. Don’t stop. Let’s keep doing this. More of this.”

So instead of replying, Steve tangles his fingers into Bucky’s hair and pulls him impossibly closer.

* * *

Tonight when Steve wakes without Bucky’s skin on his he still smells him, barely makes him out sitting on the edge of the cot in the dark, head hanging. 

“I tried to forget you,” he whispers. If Steve’s hearing weren’t so strong he wouldn’t have heard it; Bucky’s facing away. Not looking at him. “I tried to forget you because the idea of never seeing you again, of dying on that slab, I—“

“Bucky—“

“No, Steve. Let me say it. I tried to forget you and I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I can’t erase you.” He turns, finally. He looks Steve in the eyes, and his are red and wet. Steve’s face falls. “I’ll never stop loving you, Steve. No matter what. You don’t have to do anything with it, you don’t have to say anything, but you need to know. If something happens, if I…” he looks away again, sniffs. “I needed to say it. You need to know.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He sits still for a stretch of time, something painful, his heart in pieces scattered messily across the blanket. Instead, he reaches forward to grab Bucky by the shoulders and drag him into him, holding him so closely, so tightly, like he can hang onto his soul with sheer force of will. Like he can use the strength of his body to draw Bucky back to him, that kid he knew with the cocky smirk that made girls faint and boys glare. The kid who laughed and hit him playfully because he knew Steve could take it. The boy Steve fell in love with before he knew what that meant.

Bucky sighs into him, collapsing, his breath hitching as a small spot on Steve’s shoulder grows increasingly damp. “Bucky…”

Bucky shakes his head into Steve’s chest and tries to pull away, but Steve doesn’t budge. “Bucky, I love you. I’ve always loved you. You have to _know_ that.”

Bucky shakes his head again and goes boneless. Steve holds him tighter and won’t let go.

  
  


* * *

“What the fuck? Why not?”

“No, Bucky. Keep watch here. I’m taking Moria, Jones and Dum Dum in via the front. Dernier and Monty cause a distraction from the back. You stay here. It’s final.”

“You know I’m the best candidate to cover Dernier and Monty, it’ll be better if I go with them from the West. _Steve,_ come on.”

“I said no.” 

“Rogers you fucking asshole idiot jesus fucking christ you’re going to get people killed and I can’t—”

Steve glowers and grabs Bucky by the upper arm, dragging him bodily off the road and into the trees out of sight and earshot of the rest of the team. Bucky’s still spitting invectives as he’s pulled along, and then Steve flings him around with his back up to a tree. The breath comes out of him with the impact and he stops mid-sentence as Steve takes the break in venomous spitting to kiss him violently. Teeth are everywhere, Bucky’s panting angrily into his mouth, and Steve’s hands on Bucky’s hips are digging tightly into bone. Bucky growls suddenly and flips them over, slamming Steve into the tree and pulling his mouth away. He glares, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Rogers?”

“I can’t lose you, Bucky. If something happens to you, I’ll—”

“What? So you’re fine losing Dernier and Morita, then? Fuck you.” 

“No, of course not, but—”

“But _nothing_ asshole.” He steps forward again and shoves Steve against the tree. “I’m not going to let this _thing_ between us get my friends killed!” 

Steve seethes, something dark rises in him and he surges up away from the tree and shoves Bucky back, forcing him to stumble. “You really think that little of me? I can tolerate the back-talk and the insubordination, but this is getting personal. Fuck you.”

“Insubordination? Really? Fuck you, you fucking prick. Fuck _you!_ ” Bucky screams and charges at Steve, gets right up in his face and grabs the straps on Steve’s uniform. He’s shaking, and it’s clear he wants to do something violent but can’t decide between the worlds of possibilities. His face is red and he’s breathing hard and his hair looks stupid, it’s all curly and stuck up at impossible angles from the way he’s been pulling at it, and Steve has never seen anyone more beautiful in his life. He knows he’s mad—they’ve both always been irascible and the war only brings out people’s worst—but Steve can’t help himself. He kisses Bucky, affection starting to creep back in despite himself.

Bucky growls, frustrated, and pushes Steve backward as hard as he can. He doesn’t let Steve up for a second, keeps his hands in Steve’s uniform, pushing until his back slams against the tree again. “Fuck you.” Bucky says, furious, his eyes narrowed. Then they’re kissing again and Steve didn’t start it this time. It’s angry and hot—Bucky’s biting almost as much as he’s kissing, and in between kisses he’s hissing angrily. “I hate you—you’re so stupid—do you even—know how much I—fuck you, Steve—you can’t just make me—fuck—sit out—what if you—don’t come back this time—you—I hate you so much—you—“

“Hey,” Steve interrupts, pulling his mouth away, wet and red. Most of Bucky’s rant has made it through this anger, draining it as Bucky’s seems to increase. He moves his hands up to cradle Bucky’s face, holding him still. “Hey. What is this about, huh?”

Bucky‘s frowning. “You’re making me stay behind to try to keep me safe.”

Steve shrugs, a ‘yeah, and?’ visibly apparent. “I can’t lose you.”

Bucky glares. “But you’re so fucking stupid, you didn’t think about _me_ . Whether _I_ can lose _you_ . You run off alone and you jump into tanks and throw motorcycles and I have to watch all these buildings explode with you inside them. And you _think_ you know how that feels because you try to leave me behind so you can avoid it, but Steve, seriously. If you’re going to throw yourself into all these fucking Hydra psycho weapons that goo people or whatever, then you have to let me watch your back. I can’t take it.” He lets his hands drop to his sides, and his eyes follow to list somewhere off to Steve’s left. “I can’t take it.”

“Bucky—“

“So I don’t care what your fucking rank is, _Captain_ , I’m going in there with you. And you can’t stop me. I told you, and I meant it. I’m with you until the end of the line. This ain’t the last stop yet, and it won’t be. I won’t let it. Because I’m going to _be there_.”

Steve exhales, long and low and wary. “What’ll you do if I say no?”

“Knock your bitch ass out and make _you_ stay behind. See how it feels then, jackass.”

Steve laughs but there’s little humor in it. “All right,” he says, “cover the west exit, then, if it’ll make you happy.” He turns to walk away from Bucky, something missing in his shoulders and the way the slope of them is steeper. As Bucky watches his back move away, he sees that spine straighten, sees the chin tilt up, sees the swagger extend.

Bucky watches Captain America devour his best friend.

* * *

The Howlies are thrilled to have a few days at a bigger camp. Even before they arrive, Dum Dum and Morita have a downright pornographic rant about hot food and Jones and Monty bicker over who gets the soap first. Dernier keeps muttering about ammunition with a dreamy look on his face. On their march Bucky doesn’t speak unless spoken to and when he is, he participates in banter well enough to pass for happy. Steve is content in his own quiet, letting the team’s jubilance buoy him a little. 

To Steve, a bigger camp just means more eyes on him—looking up to him. Expecting things. Commanding officers. Uniform regulations. Questions. Meetings. He doesn’t realize his buoy isn’t floating so well until Bucky slides up and knocks his shoulder into Steve’s. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve replies, slinging one arm around Bucky’s shoulders and using his other hand to mercilessly mess up his hair. Bucky laughs and squirms in Steve’s grip, halfheartedly attempting to shove him off. “So, what are you looking forward to when we get there, Buck?” 

Bucky twists to look into Steve’s face, his hair smeared and curled around his forehead, his smirk obscene. Steve can’t stop looking at his mouth, his own has gone absolutely dry. Bucky’s smirk grows even more wicked when he catches Steve looking. He runs his tongue across his lower lip and flicks his eyes to Steve’s, and Steve feels like his entire body has emptied out to make room for something lighter—to make room for this. 

Bucky stares intently at Steve’s mouth when he says, slowly, “the food.” 

“God, Bucky. You—”

“ _Captain!_ ” Monty is yelling, amused, and it’s clear when Steve whips his head around that it’s not the first time his title was called. “I’ve been shoutin’ at you this whole time, what’s gotten into your head, eh?”

Bucky is cackling at Steve’s side, not even bothering to hide his laughter just as Steve doesn’t bother to move his arm from Bucky’s shoulder.

* * *

Dernier drags Bucky away as soon as they get into camp and Captain Phillips steps up to Steve. “Report, son.” Steve sighs and squares his shoulders.

It’s just as he knew it would be. Commanding officers. Uniform regulations. Questions. Meetings. All eyes on him, pinning him with their expectations. So, as always, he sings the song. He dances the dance. He smiles bigger, he strides further, and when he comes back into his tent that night he falls into Bucky’s arms exhausted.

They stand like that for a moment, just holding each other. Bucky runs his nails through the short, course hairs on Steve’s nape and kisses his temple. 

“You smell good, Buck,” Steve murmurs, burying his face in Bucky’s neck.

“It’s called soap, buddy. You ought to try it sometime.”

“Why?” Steve smirks into Bucky’s skin, runs his nose along the sensitive collarbone, “when I’m just gonna get so, so dirty again tonight?”

“You’re assuming a lot, punk.”

Steve settles his hands on the bones of Bucky’s hips and yanks him into his body, grinning as Bucky comes willingly and slides their mouths together. He wastes no time pulling away Bucky’s belt and shoving his hand past the waistband of Bucky’s pants. He notes absently how easily his hand slips in without unbuttoning anything, but he’s too desperate to touch Bucky’s cock to worry all that much about it. Bucky holds onto his shoulders, gripping almost painfully to get better leverage on his mouth against Steve’s. As Steve works his hand, Bucky drags his own down Steve’s sides, using his nails aggressively and yanking Steve’s shirt up as soon as he gets to the hem.

“This. Off.” He breathes into Steve’s mouth. Steve makes a noise of frustration in the bottom of his throat and reluctantly withdraws his hand. Steve peels off his shirt, tossing it away without looking, his eyes hot and expectant on Bucky’s. “Pants too,” Bucky says, and Steve scrambles to obey. 

Once he’s pulling off his socks he glances back, grinning at Bucky. “What’re you doing, Buck? Get stripping.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Bucky’s pupils are huge and he’s licking his lip again, eyes dragging up and down Steve’s chest. “Lie down. On your back.” When Steve hesitates Bucky meets his eyes. “C’mon, hurry it up. God, looking at you should be a crime.”

Steve’s grin feels like it’s going to break his face and he flips himself backward onto the cot, pulling Bucky down on top of him and crushing their mouths together with all the heat that’s been building between them their whole lives.

They sink together, Bucky leaning over Steve, peppering him with soft kisses to soften the burn. They’re barely breathing. Once he starts moving, Bucky bites desperately into the meat of his shoulder to try to keep quiet, and Steve’s answering groan cannot be contained. 

* * *

“God,” Bucky breathes, resting his cheek against the fading marks on Steve’s chest. 

Steve’s idly drawing patterns on Bucky’s back with his fingers, gently tracing bones and the lines of muscle. “I don’t think god has much to do with this, Buck.”

“He must—with you at least. Have you seen yourself? Fucking perfect.” 

Steve snorts a short laugh, “I don’t know about all that. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.” 

“Maybe you’re right, since I’m not sure how much he’d be into this false humility of yours.” 

“Very funny” Steve pokes at that spot on the bottom of Bucky’s ribs to make him squirm, and it works. Bucky squeals, accidentally elbowing him in the gut, and he slaps Steve’s arm in retaliation. Their skin sticks and pulls together uncomfortably in the mess they’ve made but Steve doesn’t care. 

“Ugh, I’m gonna need another shower.” Bucky sighs as he settles again.

Steve rubs his nose in Bucky’s hair, “I like it when you smell this way.” 

“You would, you disgusting little shit,” he replies with gentle affection. Steve laughs softly against his head.

“I might be able to be convinced, though,” Steve brings his hand down to grab Bucky’s ass, “maybe you can show me this ‘soap’ you won’t shut up about.”

* * *

Bucky’s laying back on the cot the next morning, languid and naked and coy about it. It takes Steve twice as long to put on his uniform as usual because he keeps looking at him and fumbling at the buckles and buttons. He has to break this moment but doesn’t want to—never wants to. How he managed to get something so good, so wonderful, in such a terrible place he doesn’t know. But he’s hungry for it, and he’ll hold onto Bucky and whatever it is they have (this _love_ ) forever and with everything he has.

“You going on this mission naked, Buck?”

“Maybe. You’d like that, huh?”

Finally finished with his uniform, Steve stalks over and leans over Bucky, sliding his gloved hands down those smooth, naked thighs. Bucky shivers and brings his head up, stretching to reach his lips toward Steve’s when the tent flap tears open with zero warning. The two men spring apart—Steve’s sure that high-pitched yelp was his—and Bucky falls straight off the back side of the cot, crashing into the munitions crate Steve was using as a bedside table and rolling onto the floor with a long groan.

“Gentlemen,” Agent Carter says, cold, aloof, arms crossed and unimpressed.

Steve salutes because he has no idea what to do and that’s usually a solid default in the Army. His entire career flashes before his eyes. Do they hang people for this? His life flashes before his eyes, too. His career has been short so he has the time for both.

“Oh please,” she rolls her eyes, “it’s a little late for formality, isn’t it? The whole of Bavaria must have heard you.”

“Um,” Steve says, dropping his hand slowly and looking around with increasing desperation, “I can explain.” (He can’t)

“I’m sure you can’t, which is why I’ve brought you this.” Carter steps forward and holds out a photograph. It’s a photograph of her—a good one, too, looking just past the camera and smiling beautifully. 

“Um,” he says again, looking back at her face for clues.

“Put it somewhere obvious. Drop comments about how beautiful I am. Every time you see me, think of how I’ve now seen Barnes naked. People will think the resulting blush is a boyish crush. And when they hear someone get positively _ravaged_ in your tent they’ll assume it’s me.”

Steve blinks, looks at the photo, looks at Peggy, and glances carefully at Bucky, who’s now peeking over the edge of the cot.

“Why?”

Peggy sighs, and her face falls into something wistful. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, but I’ve also seen the way you look at _him_. Don’t think you’re off the hook for this, Steve, I’m angry as hell but I don’t want you to get a blue ticket. I don’t want to see what happens when the world finds out Captain America is fucking his subordinate.” She glances at Bucky then, finally, briefly and expressionless, before turning back to Steve. “People will turn a blind eye—they already only see what they want to when it comes to you. This will cover you... if you can play it right. I know you’re shit at lying, but do try. Alright?”

Steve holds the photograph in front of him, staring at Peggy with his mouth fallen open. “Um, okay. Um. Thanks?”

She rolls her eyes at him one more time before turning fully to Bucky. “If you get him exposed—if you break his heart, Sergeant, no one will find your body by the time I’m done with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.” He salutes over the side of the cot and lets his head sink down further behind the weak cover.

She turns and leaves as regally and brutally as she entered. Steve hears Bucky collapse onto the ground with a groan. “Oh my god. Oh my _god._ I’m going to die. I’m already dead. I’ve died of embarrassment. We now know it’s possible. Tell Stark, for science. Remember me.”

“Did she just—“

“Give me the shovel talk and assume you top? Yes. She did.”

“She’s risking her reputation for mine,” Steve says quietly, still gazing dazedly toward the tent’s entrance.

“She’s heard us have _sex_ ugh.”

“Bucky—“

“No I know this is a big deal. I’m terrified. Why do you think I’m rambling? They won’t blue ticket you—you’re _Captain America_. But they’ll discharge and arrest me so fast I won’t know what hit me. They’ll say I seduced you with my wickedness. Which, well...” He clears his throat. “Think she’ll tell anyone?”

“What?” Steve looks startled and confused. “Why would she?”

“Steve, she wants you to nail her to a wall. You’ve seen the way she looks at you, right? She wants your dick so bad she can taste it.”

“She just said—“

“Yeah, I know. But with me gone, she gets to have you. Right?”

“What?!”

Bucky shrugs, frowning. “Whatever.”

Steve shakes his head, “She won’t tell anyone. Why would she cover for us if she was going to turn us in?”

“Well, she’s got something over us now, anyway.” Bucky pulls himself into the cot and collapses, arm over his eyes.

As he moves back over to Bucky’s side, Steve sighs so dramatically Bucky pulls his arm off his face and peers at him.

“Put it in the lid of your compass.” When Steve just blinks at him Bucky elaborates, “the photo. Cut it out and put it in your compass. You suck at orienteering so the thing is always open, and you don’t exactly wear a locket. People will see it there, but it’ll still look like you’re trying to keep it private.”

Steve brushes the back of his gloved had against Bucky’s cheek, “you know this doesn’t mean I—“

“Yeah,” Bucky looks away, exhaling heavily. “I know.”

Steve smirks, “and now every time I see it I’m going to think of you naked, blushing, and falling out of bed. I’m going to think of the noise you made when she caught us.” He mouths at Bucky’s shoulder, his gloved hand gliding down his shoulder toward his hip. “You know how pretty you are when you’re embarrassed?”

“Steve! Shut the fuck up you son of a bitch, Jesus. Your mother—god rest her soul—raised a real asshole, you know that?”

“Lucky you, hmm?” Steve _winks_.

Bucky groans, his blush not fading in the slightest.

  
  


* * *

When Bucky finds him, Steve is slumped at a table alone in the dark. His shoulders are rounded and drooping and Bucky can almost _feel_ the tension Steve’s holding, like it’s reflecting into his own body just by looking at him.

“You’re not happy,” Bucky says, sliding up behind Steve. He leans over him, left hand curling on the back of Steve’s neck, the right wandering down to pluck the map out of his hand. “What is it this time? Let me guess… Hydra.” 

Steve lets the map go and his hands drop back into his lap. 

“Come on, Steve, it’s always Hydra. How bad can it really be?” Bucky taps him gently on the head when he doesn’t respond. “Steve?” 

“It’s Zola,” Steve sighs. 

“Okay,” Bucky says, handing the map back. “That’s great, isn’t it? Let’s kill the fucker.” 

Steve feels himself slump further. He rolls up the map and puts it on the table. “We have orders to take him in alive.” 

Bucky sighs, his voice catching into the growl at the end. “Well fuck. Why?”

“Phillips and the Generals want intel.”

“That’s annoying,” Bucky leans over Steve, letting his arms drape around his chest. “But it doesn’t explain your mood, Steve. You sleep okay?”

“Stop it, Bucky, we’re supposed to be discreet,” but he rests his hands on Bucky’s forearms and leans back into the warmth. 

Bucky sighs, put upon, and withdraws his arms. Steve already regrets it and feels a shiver arc through him that has nothing to do with the cold as Bucky settles down at a chair on Steve’s right side, backwards, leaning his elbows on the table. “Alright, so tell me what’s really up with you so we can go to bed.”

Steve drags his eyes down Bucky’s lean lines. With a widening smirk, Bucky drawls “Earth to Steve. Pal, you with me?”

“Let’s just go straight to bed.”

“No. I don’t want you distracted. What’s up? Just tell me.” 

“It’s…” Steve sighs and drops his head onto the table. “He should die for what he did to you. To the entire 107th.”

“I agree. Obviously. But that’s not very Captain America-like.” He’s standing up, stretching, not looking at Steve.

“ _Steve Rogers_ is the one who gets… like this… with you.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky scuffs his toe in the dirt and kicks the table, but it’s half-hearted and the table barely shakes. “If that’s really what’s bothering you, forget it.”

“What?”

“It’s fine,” but he’s lost some of his energy. It kills Steve to see it. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s just go get him.”

“Yeah,” Steve rolls his shoulders and stands up, taking the map with him. “Now can we go to bed? Please?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Bucky leads the way and Steve follows, slower than he’d like, but he can’t make his body fake sincerity he doesn’t have. He inhales, quick and thorough through his nose, and tells himself they’ll put Zola in prison where he can never hurt anyone again, where maybe they can even figure out what the monster did to his best friend, maybe even bring that friend back to Steve. He shakes out his arms, hoping to flick the anger out the ends of his hands into the wet trampled snow of camp. He doesn’t want to bring this into bed with him.

When he exhales he feels a little better, and when he looks up Bucky is watching him, his smile hard in all the right ways as he scrapes his eyes over Steve’s body. He’s holding the tent open watching Steve expectantly, so Steve rolls the last of Zola out of his neck and shoulders and follows Bucky in.

* * *

They stand on the precipice, the cliff screaming below them. The mountains all around are so bright and reflect across the Howling Commandos’ grinning, ruddy cheeks. Bucky is so beautiful Steve can’t breathe, can’t think about anything except for how much and how hard he’s going to kiss him when they’re finished. When Zola is in prison and can’t hurt him anymore. When this is over, Steve is going to suck every negative thought Bucky’s ever had out of his dick and make sure all he remembers is _Steve_. Once Zola is gone, they can mop up Hydra, kill Schmidt and be home by year’s end. He tastes the future, and it’s bright on the frigid wind.

With a last grin at Bucky, he jumps.

* * *

And when Bucky falls, everything— _everything_ —falls with him.

* * *


End file.
